I took another look,
Because really?
I never really looked at myself,
I just told myself that everything was just fine.
Until it wasn’t
But there I was in prison
In a nine month drug program—
And in the back of my mind
I figured I would always get some kind of high once in a while.
Everything was fine
Until it wasn’t
Because that same high
Took my husband’s life
So everything was not fine
So I took another look…
Who cares?
We’ll certainly I don’t
I gave up caring a long time ago
Without caring nothing can hurt, it just
doesn’t matter
Only the numb matters
I just don’t want to feel a thing
I don’t want to participate
I don’t want to be seen
Really, I just want to cease
Or better yet, not to have existed at all
I’m no good to myself, nor anyone else
I don’t matter
I don’t fit in
And you can’t make me care
I’m picking up my marbles and walking away
I’ll be a vapor, disappearing in the sun
Please, won’t somebody care
Because I really can’t go on living like this.
Angala has been a WFR regular for years now, and her voice is honest, kind, and true. Here are five of her recent poems.
What I forgot to Tell You
No more doubts
Just a reflection
Why was I this way?
I got a feeling you were reading my mind
Why was I pretending?
I lied all the time, To myself
Wasting time
It was all the same
I got a feeling the bottle fed my doubts
Why did alcohol want me?
Why did I crave its poison?
I cried all the time at the bottom of hell
I know today alcohol was reading me, studying me as I cried in my bed wishing I was dead.
It was always the same when we talked
Alcohol was my distraction from my mind
Sober now I don’t pretend or lie
I forgot to tell you I don’t miss you, no more doubts
One day at a time
Take a Look Around
Screaming, crying, throwing
Take a look around?
Things are not like they were when your world wasn’t upside down.
Smiling. Giddy, joy, proud
Take a look around?
Places, people, things I found I can enjoy again simple pleasures like babies coming into the world, strangers smiles underneath masks I sense with smell
Take a look around ?
The world is slowly coming back together again
Sometimes I forget the simpleness of the front door but if I pull turn around and look at my home I’m reminded it’s a cozy place not scary like before
So I take a look around and find comfort in my gratitude and laugh a little with a grin.
I’m Not Going Back
Saving my last breath for you… Hell No
It’s hard sometimes to say the truth out loud
Pulling the truth out
I’m not going back to that time when the fear of their words scared the vomit through the bathroom door. Crying in the lunchroom all by myself
It’s hard sometimes to breathe in and breathe out
I wanted to run down the paths that led me home but instead I took a long winding detour that led me to broken door.
I drifted away for a while with every step I took, steps that showed me a different side of that broken smile.
Time takes time that’s why my footsteps move forward now and I’m not looking back
Today I need my pain to feel the truth
I don’t love you anymore
I’m not going back
The pain of my forgiveness, time to fix the broken pieces
I’m not going back to that day where my mind gave up on itself
I could have been my families tragedy even they let me back in
This is as honest as I’ve ever been
I sat in shame, guilt and pain but not today that was my back
There is no reason to relive all the pain
All my addictions each and every one still lives down in my makeup they scream every day to come out, I calmly smile and say no. Why go back when today is my creation?
No more shame, no more guilt, no more pain
I found joy
I found change
I found Grace
I found love
I found one day at a time
I won’t go back. Why?
Because I finally found me
It Was a Puzzle
You are not hidden
You will always be in the open
Waiting patiently for me to walk out the front door.
Just waiting to bully its words its glare as I walk place to place.
My heart trembles at the sound of your name
In your presence I was always defeated
Everything I’ve done
I am not worthless
I am not hopeless
I will stand tall
I will not cry in fear
I sent an army to rescue myself
This is where I am now
I no longer fear you
I look up and not at my feet
I know my HP had my back all along
My heart doesn’t tremble at the sound of your name anymore
Let the mountains roar
It was a puzzle for years, but not any more.
I Took Another Look
Some kind of magic
Don’t let me get comfortable
Got a tendency to let go
Won’t be happy either way
Addicted to blue
How lucky am I?
There isn’t too much to say
Go have fun
Got good at faking smiles
You wouldn’t even notice
The focus on a thousand eyes
I can’t undo what I have done
We can take all night, if we know where this goes
Why did I play with fire?
You got to grit your teeth while you smile through all the pain
If I let the ground swallow me whole
I am just trying to build myself back up to take another look.
What do you see?
Take a look around:
do you see your innermost motives
set in an array of artifice and votives?
Do you see me looking at you seeing me?
See with your humanity, as if through the skin
as you careen through your busy life
on your roller coaster cart.
Cats and rats scurrying around each other
in a game of catch as catch can
like bats chasing mosquitos in the dark.
Observe your surroundings before you scuttle off
to a restaurant in the upper section of town
to meet the friend who withholds
his permission to let you mount
the clouds and soar above him
or even next to him
stop to hear the robin in the old oak overhead
before you jump into a cab without finishing your bread
What’s the rush? Just shush
the motor in your head where it hovers.
Tread gingerly, compañero,
it’s over before you remembered
to savor the moments
you can never recover
We’re proud to share that the work of six WFR writers is featured in “Rebirth,” the current issue of Paper Dragon, the Drexel University literary magazine. The pieces are really fantastic, so be sure to share them. And thanks to Nonfiction Editor Beth Ann Downey and Editor-in-Chief Bill Vargo for inviting us to submit to their wonderful magazine!
I’m trying to be more aware of
the water flowing in Otter Creek
and the trees reflected on its surface,
the silvery branches, thinly decked
bright early green
against a blue cloud-puffed sky
Not long ago, I looked
across the puddled field
on the other side of the road
at a heron, sitting tall in the marshy grass.
Then taking flight, gliding
barely above the grassy ground
and rising quickly over the creek
to become part of the reflected image, the
newly leafed trees, the blue sky
and a couple of deep and dramatic
grey-white clouds.
Often, I forget to remember:
I’m trying to be more aware
of my surrounding
of my ever present brain
and its shenanigans
that ride me on repetitive routs
patterns I try to eschew
kind of like letting go
of an old foe
I surf the wave
of conditioned reflex
unaware how i share
my space with all around me
all of the all including the fall
from grace, before I could
even walk or talk
so many years of restrained tears
meet me on the verge of a surge
of emotion, from which I attempt
to glide astride
and ocean of salt and brine
that i made more
so very long ago
Awareness, that beast I
have tried to repress
now wants to vault out
and no longer behave
before I cave in
to an monstrous rave.
I stood on a tall great wall
100 feet above the ground
and I felt wobbly.
I tried to keep my balance
like a drunken ballerina
on a tight rope.
A burly phantom climbed up with a ladder
and I floated over to pull me down,
but lingered on the ledge of oblivion;
he threw me a ropelike a lasso, but missed.
To fall or to stall
the inevitable until
it came naturally?
He threw the rope, again
though not like a lasso, this time
and I teetered as it reached me;
it was a long way down!
But I grabbed the rope
and held on tight;
Then I fought to survive;
Then I wanted to be alive
to give abstinence a chance
without a brooding or rueful
backward glance.
I clutched on to salvation
and climbed down the ladder
one rung at a time
and out of the clouds
to descend to a less fickle world.
On the last rung, I jumped into the phantom's arms
and almost toppled him.
All at once, gratitude sprang up
and carried us both.
If only I could send you
the fragrance of the apple blossoms,
you, beleaguered ones, running for shelter as rockets and
bombs hail down.
Why do the nations rage so furiously together?
Why do the peoples imagine a vain thing—
the Psalmist’s plaint, so ever-contemporary.
The Sabbath bread is baking.
I offer my heart.
If only I could gather you here in the garden,
in amity, without judgment, joined in our common grief—
you Jews, you Muslims, you Christians,
you: Palestinians and Israelis,
together at our Sabbath table.
Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.
The commander cleared her throat and stuck the facts to the board. What they knew could be counted on one hand: the victim’s false identity, modest career, lack of close relationships, and his time of death.
She’d never been efficient at managing her emotions, still locked up for a few seconds when she passed that yellow tape, somehow worse after the promotions from 15 years of noticing how and why people kill. TV makes her and her colleagues look like observant rockstars, using clues and a penchant for puzzles to rid society of her worst. But that wasn’t the case, if you’ll forgive the pun — the solve rate was abysmal. Although the fanfare afforded to the high-profile ones helped the pill go down easier for the masses.
Her therapist would call this “overwhelming herself in order to underwhelm herself”. Progress.
A cough brings her back to linoleum, fluorescent lighting, and uniforms stress sweating as the solve window approaches. She’s been mostly successful at shoving back a too-cramped apartment, thoughts of mythical coins, and self-actualisation. Here there’s a man that needs justice and for now, that’s all she can handle being aware of.
Ric Cengeri of WDEV Radio’s Vermont Viewpoint invited Gary on to talk WFR. Check it out!
Raise Your Chalice High
She gave me a white chip today
I’m no longer pissing my life away
maybe I’ll find another wife
to give me grief and strife
Raise your chalice high
to the guy in the sky
for he alone only knows why
we spit in the reapers eye
Then bitter tears came to my eyes
or was it the smoke so thick you
could cut it with a knife
to reveal the lies
she’s been whispering
to me all my life
Raise your chalice high
to the guy in the sky
for he alone only knows why
we spit in the reapers eye
Oh what great things
we could do a snuggling
staring at the ceiling
and insanely sniggering
Raise your chalice high
to the guy in the sky
for he alone only knows why
we spit in the reapers eye
So now I’ll say good night
and go to sleep
dreaming of holding
a red chip so tight
It wasn’t like this
when I was growing up.
It was strong and limber
when the green in my limbs
were still growing
It wasn’t always old and creaky
when I was still exploring myself
when all my love was self defeating.
It wasn’t enlightened by the awareness
of the brevity
of our delicate stay here
I wanted, so much to perish prematurely
so I threw much of it to the ether
as if i could breathe it in another dimension
Only after years of swaggering and staggering
only after spitting venom at the world
and having it spit contagion back
did a precious spark
give hark to my ear
Now, embracing the moments I have left
I sometimes reflect with remorse and regret.
The warmth against my body is comforting.
It’s Fiona.
My wife and I call the space between us in bed, Fiona’s Middle
She heaves herself into my back and heavily exhales.
When I was so sick from alcohol it was Fiona, gave me comfort.
Fiona was there, the warmth and pressure of her body against my back was comforting and calming to the shake I had within.
Now she is older. Her entry is not so much a leap but a step and a plop into her space.
She will be 12-years-old at the end of this month.
That is five years more than Hank, our first yellow lab, had.
Hank had the middle too. At his end it was Hank that was shaking and I was the steady warmth against him.
Now sober. I, like Fiona, have five extra years.
Who’s a good girl? I am. I’m a good girl
We didn’t talk about it.
We didn’t talk about anything.
We were talked to.
“Don’t do as I do, do as I say.”
“Stop crying or I will give you something to cry about.”
I started talking about it.
It didn’t go well.
I am now living in exile.
Shunned for daring to have an opinion different from you, Mother Dear.
Well, it is quite an adventure living “No Contact.”
It’s quite lovely really.
I don’t hang up the phone and feel sorry for you and sad for me.
I no longer search for remedies for your ills online only to have you ignore me.
We didn’t talk about it then,
And we won’t talk about it now.
Now that you have shown me who you are.
Now that you have exposed your ugly underbelly.
Now that I am getting healthier, I not only talk about it, I write about it.
The writing heals me.
It reminds me.
Every day it reminds me.
The page is a place to practice talking about everything I have been warned not to talk about.
As I write, I heal.
If I Hadn’t
There was a time I wore a coat of so many colors sometimes I got lost. Forgotten amidst my protection, which shell I was wearing, which disguise I had donned that particular day. Was I the good witch or the bad? On the yellow brick road or the path to destruction. Was I the queen or the pauper, the turtle or the hare? I could always run away but could I ever run toward? That’s an interesting idea because running toward is not something I do lightly. Not something that is easily done from under neath these many layers of colors I have so cleverly created. Can the world see them or are they only visible to me? If I hadn’t created them who would I be? Would I be normal, different, loved more? If I hadn’t been me, then who would I be, who would you see. You would still simply see me, If I hadn’t been me.
Ode to Johny
You can’t convince me there is only one way to do this. That your way is the best way, the only way. You have what I want so do it the way I do it. You tell me if I try it my way-How’s that workin’ for you? Had enough yet? This friendly face came across the room toward me on a computer screen not too long ago. He didn’t preach to me. He didn’t tell me how to behave, how to react, how to feel. He didn’t list off the only way do this thing that we were all reaching for. He asked me some questions, he listened for my answers then he asked me what I felt. I will never forget that face coming toward me on that screen that day. He didn’t try to convince me of anything. He still doesn’t. He is real today. He came out of the screen and into my life. He didn’t need to convince me. I am convinced. There is more than one way.
Writers for Recovery cofounders Bess O’Brien and Gary Miller are pleased to announce that they have acquired a new, living mascot for the 6-year-old writing and recovery program: Regggie the Recovery Zebra. Reggie, rescued from a roadside zoo in Beaufort, SC, will reside at the home of Bess and her husband Jay in the Northeast Kingdom, and will accompany Bess and Gary on recovery-related events across New England.
“It seemed like a natural fit,” says O’Brien, “After all, when we enter recovery, we begin to change our stripes. So why wouldn’t Reggie be a great reminder of that fact?
Miller, who is currently helping a crew build a small barn on Bess and Jay’s property for Reggie, points out that while zebras usually live in warmer climates, they quickly grow a thicker coat when exposed to cold temperatures. “He should be snug as a bug up in the Northeast Kingdom.”
Bess and Gary both look forward to bringing Reggie on his first Vermont tour, sometime in early June. Also, they wish everyone a wonderful April Fools Day.
On Wednesday, February 17, Writers for Recovery was honored to read as part of Vermont’s annual Recovery Day. This year’s event was held online, but it still managed to showcase all the hard work, love, and community that characterizes the recovery movement in Vermont. We are grateful to Peter Espenshade, Danielle Sessler, and all the other folks at the Recovery Vermont, without whom this amazing event wouldn’t have been possible.
This year, four of our amazing writers shared their work with the Recovery Day audience. Please enjoy these wonderful pieces!
by Ashlee Loyer
When you said that,
Did you know how it would affect me?
Did you know how angry, how sad, how confused you would make me?
When you said that
Did you know you would validate so many things?
Did you know so many negative thoughts and feelings would truly lock into place?
When you said that
Did you know that it suddenly made sense that I was an outcast, genuinely the black sheep?
Did you know it would make me question everything about my life and question how much of it was a lie?
When you said that
Did you think at all about me? I was only 17.
Did you think at all about the emotional repercussions could be?
When you said that
I shattered into a million pieces. Did it make you feel better?
I was never the same after that moment. Did you know you tore out a piece of me?
When you said that
Did you know I would use drugs and alcohol to cope with the emotions I was feeling?
Did you know that I would be swallowed into a world that I never wanted to be in and almost didn’t make it out of alive?
Did you know it would destroy so much of my life?
When you said that
You changed my life
Shattered my being
And I have yet to return.
Did you think of me at all
When you said that?
by Johny Widell
The lilacs were starting
to bloom, and that meant we were
fully into Spring.
In a few weeks, we'd be planting the garden.
The apple blossoms would come out any day
and the orchard behind the house would become
a sea of white.
In no time
white petals would fly
and soon
corn would be high and green.
Soon
leaves would begin to change and apples
(did I ever see them green?)
would be red and yellow ripe and falling from the trees.
The leaves,
the leaves red and orange and yellow flying on the breeze.
I would feel that first breath of winter,
shortened days, the smell of chill
on the night air,
bitter cold and snow blowing
against my face and neck,
all the branches except a scattering of
golden leaved oaks,
turned to sticks,
gray sticks
cold against the gray white sky.
Now I see these first blooms of lilacs,
soft purple in a vase on the altar
with deep purple tulips
behind the names of the dead.
by Johny Widell
I see folks smoking in front of
The recovery center
The strange beauty of snow falling through
Big puffs of smoke.
Behind what used to be the Dream Center,
Virginia, my friend who works in the opioid epidemic,
Whose son died in the opioid epidemic,
Scattering salt from a small Morton container
Onto the thick ice.
Through the heavy snow,
I see broken windows,
Bare boards where all the paint has worn away
No trespassing signs
Some handwritten with dire warnings
A laundromat, another laundromat, another laundromat,
That one closed for good.
Houses here and there freshly mended
Freshly painted.
A mom pulling her child on a sled,
Both giggling through heavy snowfall.
Across from the old abandoned Methodist church,
There is a house where last spring
I had several chats
With a friendly guy who told me,
While quickly downing his morning tall boy,
About the drug dealers upstairs,
The semi-trucks full of merchandise.
Now the whole place is boarded up.
Across the street, a large plate glass
Window completely filled with
A colorful tapestry of a seated Buddha.
I hadn't even seen it until Busshin pointed it out.
Even then, I looked right at it for a while before I finally spotted it.
Now, it is enormous, surreal, bright
in this neighborhood of white and colorless houses,
All of it filtered through the hoard of lovely snowflakes
Descending softly from the sky.
by Nelly W.
It began with the taxi cab driver rolling me, or maybe before that because I hadn’t eaten for a while-- so excited about seeing you!
and it may have only been toward the middle when I was propositioning you and you were talking to lace-sleeved girls, telling you that you had prior claims on my body or heart,
but slurring lyrics instead and leaning in, mad, angry, and incomprehensible--invading your space. The lace long sleeve see-through shirts, and trying to get out of my bar bill as the music ended, and did I fall to the floor serving a platter of petit fours? And I laughed and said, “a Bosnian-Canadian Bar-be-que? I don’t want to eat any nationalities” and I remember how the band was relying on me to be charming,
all commands at my dance,
and it was Nuit Blanche a festival of White Nights and outdoor art installations, all for me,
and all the transportation was free so I should not have taken that cab ride and that circumnavigated town and I was wearing the sequence union flag almost spice girls dress with red Mary Janes
and my sister was really worried because the whole next day I may have eaten two tiny squares of a chocolate bar because to see you, I never needed any food and I looked so good and you could see me on the dance floor making the scene and everybody wanted to be me, and I looked good
and I was on others’ Facebook feeds
and it was not even clear if I was a female impersonator because I was thin and tall and sexy and hot and so so effed.
At the Dark Horse the next day, near the metal horse sculpture, you still wanted me to tell me about your movie
even after it all, the next day
still valued my heat-mad-wet and resplendent brain.
You forgave me enough to see me through that drunk and even a few more after that when I missed breakfast or you took the train to see me and I slept through our connection.
You are my favourite step nine. A reason we can be blessed with many lives, a throughline conversation and an old friendship’s timeline’s worth of breakfasts.
Yay obviously not the end, as teen, I could tuck into and dust a thirty pack.
Not the end of the adventure, or the research, and thankfully not or our friendship.
You call me Carol Danvers and have seen me turn this epic life into a superhero prequel because this is not the end of it.
by Nelly W.
Worth thinking about?
the moment, an atmospheric tenderness: late summer’s embrace, home after the first birth
My Columbian friend tells me that girl babies steal your beauty. The gender was revealed in the OR, but on the adage alone, it was clear. The new parents were so grumpy. Acne and long-term not-sleeping on both of them.
We were walking
The stalks of corn so high
The harvest moon so high
The kind of walk that massages the earth:
Man: philosopher peripeditically strolling
Woman: wonder-filled and swaggering
Kitty-cat-like leashless dog: clomp clomp trot-- so proud!
Bushy tail clippity cloppity
Long empty country road like a classic American painting
Far from people
I was letting you in
on how they were happy-tired and grumbly-tired
So new, brimming with story
New family stories
It really took them a year to get in a full, good sleep!
Like with us, with our origin story,
up every night for a month,
that first month, not sleeping, working together at the institute, staying up
until
the tear gas and the protests in Quebec City with the 4-storey bonfire and the parade of 100,000. Hula hoops and fire breather fire dancers. “Solidarite! Sole-ee-dar-it-tay”
Holding hands in the roar
That’s when we slept.
So I was trying to tell you about living in Toronto, and the how and what of this longed-for baby even with my sisters’ blood and ovarian betrayal. All of the proudness of the pup in the city: maybe she was on set with Neil Patrick Harris! and you turned to me and said,
“We dodged a bullet when we didn’t have children.
You are the most effing irresponsible person in the world.
You don’t deserve children.”
Now, so many miles, addresses, and lives later,
I’m trying to unweave belief.
And let go the kite string on the rea `sons I drink.
by Peter Fried
I’m looking into it:
the looking glass.
Through it. Screw it,
stale, gravestones,
endings. Braided hair.
Braids. The world spinning
on its axis. The choir singing,
Hossanah in Excellesis.
Come here dear. Steer my car
near your curb. Curb your dog.
Put the collar on my neck,
call me reverent, what the heck!
Put me in a tail spin. Render
me useless. Take me to the
slag heap with your other kids,
the ones that poke fun at you,
and one day might poke a
hole in the smoke…stack.
Bring me my tobacco, my
Drum, my Shag, my papers,
my skins. Feel me where
the light comes in. Liberate me
from self-consciousness from my
portable prison made of light
kill me in a disjointed way
right now right here on St. Patrick’s Day.
The Pogues, The Boomtown Rats, and Sinead
O’Connor. Tell her it’s not because of her
that I have a boner. On Talbot Road,
on Westbourne Grove. Gimme, gimme,
gimme more vibration Jimmy.
Joe Strummer. What a bummer.
Daisy Colburn. I did a runner.
Come on, come on, take me on
the anxiety omnibus, a quick
trip to Battersea shouldn’t kill us.
Bubble and squeak. Eel and pie.
No need to wait, we’re going to die!
by Peter Fried
It happened a long time ago.
Did it? Did it really-like-happen-
like a long time ago? Anyway. What?
What happened a long time ago?
Nothing? I know nothing happened a long time ago,
because nothing is happening right now.
A long time ago the river said nothing.
She did not speak to her neighbor.
She didn’t mend fences,
make good on promises, on small talk.
She didn’t. It fizzled out. It all did.
It was all left out to dry in the wind,
blowing across the farm,
chilling the livestock,
blowing up skirts,
causing a ruckus, a commotion,
a, ‘come on baby’.
“Please baby baby baby please”
Down there in the yard
with your rubber boots sinking into the mud
growing impatient, your skull hurting
like hell. Blissed out on something.
Blissed out on bliss balls.
The bliss balls laid out on the stall.
For anyone to take, to put one by one
into open mouths. Ready to chew down hard,
on the cud, of the money,
the wedge. The sinking ship that wouldn’t
float-refused to. Wanted to sink,
to say farewell, Titanic-style,
plop, whoosh, gone- no tomorrow,
arrivederci. bloop bloop bloop
Down she goes
Nothing much to see up hear
Dead Calm.
by Peter Fried
“Just how does that work?”
asked the doctor, letting go of all
expectations,
dropping the deck of cards
onto the pile of lonelinesses-
tomorrows which never came,
did not come, have not, will not,
cannot, would not, ought not.
To the stable with the barrow boy-
out with the rifle, don’t stifle, this trifle,
this connection, this appointment with hate,
with the labyrinth at the end of time-
at the end of the hall,
turn right for hate room 101, or 108,
I forget which- you will remember-
just follow the barbwire-
laid-low rosary
leading the way to kingdom come,
to Valhalla, the hate bomb,
the eight ball- don’t get stuck
behind the shadow Sisyphus got stuck
behind, getting his inverse, reverse tan
on the hill to the beacon-
comb your hair stallion,
meet me where the shadows are long,
where the asphalt ends,
where the fun starts,
the angels land-
light as feathers,
deft as dandelions
before they are blown-
don't pass me up because my skin is sallow,
because I didn't swallow,
because I didn't change
my Carhartt tutu
for the real deal!
Five Saturdays at 1 -2:30 PM starting February 20, 2021.
Please join us: space is limited!
I’m starting to repeat some good habits, healthy habits.
It’s hard to think, so many thoughts, can’t grab. I feel that now, before I couldn’t see it, grabbing thoughts from my bubble, I’m so behind but I’m a good sprinter.
Not all days can be good days, enjoy the moment.
Everything is adding up, I can use my own words, again. It was too much, I didn’t know how to speak. I had to realize who I was, my mannerisms, my personality.
This walk, I have to keep going without needing to talk to my parents, I’m just scared to be on my own.
Facing my fear and doing the work.
I see the moguls, I’m ready, I’ll make it to the bottom.
Keep this mentality up, you’re doing great.
I’m sorry my left seems easier but it hasn’t felt that way. I’ve had support though and I’m sorry you didn’t have that. Everyone deserves that.
I want to call Dad. I miss talking to him. I don’t know what to say a lot.
I’m figuring out my true feelings and what they mean and what I want to say or do or why it’s hard to let the words even flow.
What does being a feminist mean to me.
Feelings pass, keep going.
Smoke, go for a walk, meditate, listen to music, try not to call people.
Weed needs to be consistent like medication.
I can enjoy alone time. My walks at gram’s house, remember that, you needed those breaks.
No man has all the answers, I do, it’s my journey and life.
Dancing in the snow. When will this happy feeling end? How much longer do I get to enjoy? Perfect VT snow day. Not too cold or windy, light snow falling down.
Dancing in the snow. No one around, I have this outdoors all to myself. Walking down the path with my headphones in, I’m jamming out by myself. Well, Onyx, my dog, was there with me, She’s doing her thing and I’m doing mine. I look at her and think about how life is so much better with her in it. I kept wanting to dance. When will this happy feeling end? How much longer do I get to enjoy? I took a few rips off my bowl before heading out, my joyous mood is enhanced from that. I don’t usually make it though a day without feeling irritated or down about something. Today feels different. Onyx and I were outside for much longer today, taking our time and enjoying this beautiful VT snow day. We get home after a long talk with my good friend. It’s always nice when I can spread my happiness around. We both work hard to live mentally stable lives. We get inside and the first thing I do is get comfortable to meditate, five minutes, I’m finally ready to try this on my own. I really should be doing this everyday, I did it, I can have care for myself like I give to others. I’m capable of loving myself. We have now reached the time of day that is known as the afternoon and I’m still happy with my day. I’ve been using my time well and I’m enjoying myself and not rushing through. These are the things I need to be writing down, I’m doing it, making the changes, look out world here I come.
